


Decorating Is Not A Spectator Sport

by Goneahead



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Attachment Issues, Child Abuse, Food Issues, Gen, Pre-Thor (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:27:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goneahead/pseuds/Goneahead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because--cabin. Every agent took a different road to get to SHIELD--Barton's path just required more decorating skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decorating Is Not A Spectator Sport

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the September WIP and posted very late, as usual. This fic assumes Jacques Duquesne (The Swordsman) and Buck Chisholm (Trickshot) were still Clint's mentors in MCU. Yes, there is no RAT team in the army, but last I checked, there's no Howling Commandos, either. For readability’s sake, anything || between these lines || is a flashback.

~~+~~

(twenty-five) "Barton."

An envelope was slapped into his hand. Clint started to say 'thanks', but the guy was already moving on, passing out the mail to other soldiers.

He ran his fingers slowly over the thick manila envelope, his mouth suddenly dry. The envelope felt heavy. Fuck. Had his luck finally changed?

He bit his lip, opened the envelope--Yes.

_Yes._

A letter, with a _title._

A real _fucking_ title. He, the guy who owned no furniture and no car and no phone, now owned a house.

A house.

Like, a _house_.

Shit.

Clint rubbed the back of his neck and read the letter, tongue tripping over the legal words. Holy shit.

Shitshitshit _shit._

It had _worked_.

He'd gotten the idea from another soldier. Houses went up for auction all the time. And he had cash, cold hard cash, cash he really needed to get rid of. He'd just never thought his plan would work, because, well, it was one of _his_ plans.

And what company would take a whole lot of cash without asking some hard-to-answer questions?

But the auction company hadn't even blinked. It had handled the entire transaction in a very efficient and vaguely illegal way. Clint had picked a few of the houses on their website, then hoped like hell he wasn't being ripped off, and now? Now he owned a _house_.

Um, wait--which house had he won?

He'd liked the one in Michigan, but the house in West Virginia was OK, too.He bit his lip, rummaged through the paperwork, trying to find the address. Flipped through the title twice, finally found the address, and--

Awww, shit.

The house-- _his_ house--was in Wyoming.

_Wyoming._

He hadn't bid on a house in Wyoming.

Fuck.

And he was shipping out tonight, and it would be six whole _months_ before he could do anything to fix this.

He smacked the paperwork against his forehead.

Fuuuuuuckkkk.

~~+~~

|| (twelve) Food!

Clint dropped the broom and long-handled dustpan, grabbed the half-eaten hot dog out of the trash can. He took one ravenous bite--

"Ewww! Mommy, he's eating trash!"

He looked up, face burning with shame.

A woman shot him a look of disgust, and hurried her kid out of the circus tent.

He ducked back into the stands, hastily stuffed the rest of the hotdog in his mouth. Then he stared down at his taped up sneakers, picking at the ripped hem of his shirt.

He wanted to leave.

He really, really wanted to leave.

Barney kept saying they were going to leave, but they never did. Not that he really cared his brother kept lying, just 'cuz Barney was hot for the sword swallower's daughter, but...

Why couldn't they work for the Carsons again? Sure, the Carsons were crooks and mean, but at least he'd gotten a meal once a day.

One of the roustabouts was staring at him.

Clint ducked his head, picked up the broom and dustpan. Went back to sweeping.

He hated sweeping.

Sweeping _sucked_.

Not as much as being hungry, though.

When he grew up, he was never going be hungry again.

Never ever. ||

~~+~~

(twenty-six) Clint fell into the nearest seat, wet, dirty, and tired from weeks of crappy weather and an equally crappy assignment.

And hungry.

He fished in his pocket for the candy bar he'd stolen from another soldier's pack. It was half-melted, but-- _food_. He choked it down while the carrier rattled down the runway. Some of the other soldiers nervously clutched their weapons when the C-17 finally heaved itself into the air with an ominous groan.

Shit.

Clint looked over the loadmaster. He didn't know crap about planes, but the loadmaster seemed pretty calm, considering all the seriously fucked up noises the engines were making.

Of course, the truly fucked up thing was that he knew what a loadmaster was.

Because he was in the army.

Which was also fucked up.

Some military assholes had shoved a state-of-the-art crossbow at him, showed him a photo of a target. A week later, Clint had put a ceramic-tipped polycarbonate arrow into the right eye socket of some poor schmuck who probably didn't deserve it. Then he'd hunkered down, waited for the assholes to toss him back into his cell on Ryker's Island.

He was still waiting.

Clint crammed in the last bite, picking at the problem. He might not have made it past seventh grade, but even he was smart enough to know that the US government didn't have much use for some guy who ran around fighting with a string and pointy wooden sticks--

"Hey, I know you. You're that Barton dude." The loadmaster was grinning at him. "You're the one they couldn't fuckin' capture during SERE, right?"

_Awww, shit._

He shrugged, wiping his fingers on his pants. The SERE training had been months ago, and he really wished everyone would just let it go. Besides he hadn't meant to escape--he'd just gotten hungry.

OK, so he hadn't been too keen on the whole "please surrender when the air horn sounds so we can capture and beat your ass" part of the training, either. What had happened next still wasn't his fault.

Well, at least not _all_ of it.

Only _some_ of it.

"So, come on, tell me, is it true? Did it really take them a whole week to find you?"

"Maybe." He looped one shoulder in a half-shrug.

It wasn't true. 

He and his partner had laid low for three days, then sneaked back. Appropriated some equipment, created a diversion, and freed the soldiers playing prisoner. He wasn't supposed to talk about it, though. The people running the training were mad as hell, and only agreed to pass him if he kept his mouth shut.

"Holy shit--a whole fuckin' week. That's awesome, 'cuz, man, I _hated_ SERE. Here." The loadmaster shoved a thermos at him, "It's a couple of hours old, but it's the real shit. None of that camel piss they serve out here."

Clint hesitated, but took the thermos, because he was ready to kill for _real_ coffee. "Uh, thanks."

"No problem. Hey," The loadmaster leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper, "if you're interested, I know a guy in the RAT unit; I could put in a word for you. Me and him, we went through basic together."

Once again, Clint hesitated. Nobody knew exactly what the Recon and Tactics guys did, and he didn't like owing anybody a favor. But the RATs also got a lot of perks and ate with the officers. That meant better food--and money.

He needed money, because--well, _cabin._

In Wyoming.

 _Also_ fucked up.

He nodded slowly, "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

"No problem, man--glad to help a brother out." The guy took his thermos back, "Man, I can't believe you held out for a whole week. That's fuckin' _awesome._ "

~~+~~

|| (seven) "Aww, Clinton, is that another shiner?" Casey, the man who fixed stuff around the orphanage, looked down at him. "What did I tell you about fightin', son?"

"I'm not suppose to fight." He wiped his face, hoping Casey hadn't seen the tears. It was his brother who'd punched him, it was _always_ his brother--but nobody could know. If Barney got caught doing bad things, he'd be sent upstate, to the farm.

Boys died at the farm.

That's what the other kids said.

He wiped his face again, got to his feet. "I'm sorry, Casey."

"I’m sure you are." Casey smiled down at him, held out his hand. He was the only adult who ever smiled at Clint. "Come on, I'll show you how to fix those stairs in the back. You need to learn to do something useful with those hands, ‘sides fightin' all the time."||

~~+~~

(twenty-six) Clint slowed the SUV down, glancing at the mileage on the dash. The mailbox should be coming up on his left.

1006 Wild Pine, Hensonville, Wyoming.

 _Not_ 10006 West Pine, Henderson, West Virginia.

He'd hit the wrong button, added the wrong house to his auction list, and was stuck with some stupid fixer-upper house in Wyoming.

Scratch that-- _cabin._

In the fucking country.

He hated the county. Hated it. Being stuck in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, with only a tiny hick town nearby with over-priced gas and no beer, because the only people who drank were those who were going to hell.

Which meant his mom and his dad and his brother were all roasting somewhere, and seriously, who the fuck came up with that kind of shit?

Religion? Sucked, too.

He turned his mind back to the cabin.

That he didn't want.

Except...

He'd seen the pictures on the internet. Only four photos, but the place had kind of grown on him. The cabin was built back in the forties; it was small and rambling, and built mostly of wood.

It looked.... cozy.

Well, 'cept all the repairs that needed to be made.

Clint rubbed his face--and nearly missed his turn. He heaved hard on the wheel, yanking the SUV into the driveway, the vehicle skidding on the half-washed out road. The back bumper hit the mailbox, knocked it over.

Oops.

He got the front wheels straightened out, nosed the vehicle forward. The driveway was wide, with tall, tall trees on either side. He bumped along, easing the SUV over a couple of awful ruts, and the a bridge across a rushing creek.

Because, yeah, of course he would have to cross a fucking creek to get to his house--scratch that, _cabin_.

He crawled along for a while, and was just starting to wonder how long the stupid driveway was, when the gravel road veered left and then opened into a large grassy clearing.

Oh, holy shit.

The cabin was...

The cabin was fucking _cool._

It sat right on the very top of a hill, jutting out from the earth like the bow of a ship. The basement was stone, half sunk into the ground, while the top two stories were cedar, with a wide front porch and an expensive-as-shit metal roof.

Clint knew exactly how much the roof cost because the auction company had sent him a list of 'suggested repairs'. He'd suspected a scam, but they already had the last of his cash and it was spend it, or hide it.

He'd spent it.

Told them to stain the wood and put on a new metal roof and fix the pump for the well. He'd then gotten a second packet, with warrantees and guarantees and a list of numbers to call 'if the work wasn't to your level of satisfaction'. He wasn't sure if he should be impressed--or wonder why the auction company was so creepily efficient.

As soon as Clint landed stateside, he'd crammed both envelopes in a bank deposit box and asked for leave, so he could then drive to the-middle-of-fucking-nowhere Wyoming to see the cabin.

His cabin.

With 16 acres and a creek and a whole-fucking-lot of repairs.

Clint pulled up in front of the garage, a long building with three garage doors and some windows at the far end. He got out, fumbled through the ring of keys, trying to find one that fit the padlock on the first garage bay. He found a key that worked, took the lock off, and pulled on the handle.

The door refused to budge.

It took another ten minutes, and some swearing, but he finally got the second bay door opened. He parked the rental, then poked around.

The garage must've been fancy at one time. It was built of stone, had a flagstone floor and plastered walls. At the far end, there was a small apartment with its own woodstove, and a workshop with an ancient back-up generator. Even now, needing repairs and a new roof, the garage was nicer--and bigger--than just about any place Clint had ever lived.

Most of the repairs were doable, too--and would give him something to do with his hands for the next month.

So--what was the cabin like?

He grabbed his duffel bag from the trunk, locked the garage and headed for the flight of stairs leading up to the front porch. He dropped the bag at the foot, circled the house.The paperwork said the place had been built in 1941 on the foundation of an older house. He was guessing that meant the stone basement, half-nestled into the hill.

The cabin was another two stories, built with wide cedar planks, its front windows sticking out like the bow of a boat. The front porch was 'L' shaped, wrapping around those front windows and along one side, supported by braces. He kept walking, squinting up at the cabin.

_His cabin._

The porch must've been built on later because the wood wasn't the same. In the back, there were other additions. A low one-story section of wood had been added, and then another stone addition had been tacked on to that, with a screened porch at one end.

It made more sense now.

He'd kept looking at the photos, trying to understand how a tiny cabin could be '5 bedrooms and 4 baths, with a spacious loft, and a finished basement with a kitchenette'. But all four pictures had been taken from one side of the cabin, so the additions and the basement couldn't be seen.

The place was _big_.

And well-built. The paperwork for the repairs had included an inspection. There had been a depressingly long list of things wrong, but mostly minor stuff. The foundation and walls were solid, and the insulation and wiring were sound. It also had its own well, a fireplace, a couple of wood stoves, and a propane stove.

If he could get the generator working, the cabin would be practically self-sufficient.

Clint completed the circle, picked up his bag, and went up the stairs. He followed the porch along the side of the house to a door. He found the correct key on the sixth attempt, unlocked the door and took a tentative step inside.

He was in a long, narrow room that must've once been the porch. The walls and ceiling were all wood, but the floor was peeling vinyl--ugly peeling vinyl. There was a second front door at the far end. He walked across the peeling vinyl, opened it.

Oh holy shit, the next room was fucking _huge._

The living room of the cabin had a soaring cathedral ceiling, with two large skylights. The enormous front windows were to his left and a massive stone fireplace took up most of the far wall. There was a staircase on the right side of the living room; it led up to a spacious loft, and a couple of closed doors.

The room was also _ugly._

There were hideous wrought iron light fixtures hanging on either side of the fireplace, the skylights and windows had weird purple and gold molding, and the stairs that led up to the loft were covered in purple shag carpet.

Clint squinted at the molding, then looked slowly back to the stairs.

What moron had thought purple shag carpet was a good idea?

He went right, stepped into a spacious dining room and kitchen area--and dropped his bag.

OK, scratch that.

What moron had thought orange kitchen counters were a good idea? And what insane crazy person had picked out the wallpaper?

He tilted his head, trying--and failing--to believe the wallpaper was real. It was green and gold with psycho daisies--the daisies were _fucking_ smiling. There was also an avocado green fridge and a dark brown stove, and more weird purple and gold molding around the light fixture, but seriously, there were _creepy smiling daisies_ on his kitchen walls.

Shit. He'd done some construction work when he was a kid. He could do plaster and paint and maybe stain some wood if he had too, but this?

This required stuff like _decorating_.

He dropped his head into his hands.

Awww, shit.

He was so, so, _so_ very fucked.

~~+~~

|| (eighteen) "You betrayed me, Clint!" Jacques growled out the words, his sword already arcing down.

"Please! Please, don't do this!" Clint begged, because he was too far out; no place to go, no place to jump.

And then the blade sliced the rope, and he was falling; screaming because there was no net-- ||

~~+~~

(twenty-seven) _Fuck._

After a year of being on the team, Clint could now explain exactly what RATs did. Crazy fucking shit. Like climbing a fucking _skyscraper_. Normally, it would've been kind of cool to see Beijing from a few hundred feet up, but being shot _and_ knifed was not his idea of a good time.

Also? It made climbing a bitch.

He squinted up, trying to see the railing, but his vision kept blurring. He put a hand on his vest, felt blood seeping out, sluggish and sticky. _Shit._

He gritted his teeth and kept climbing.

"Barton?" Trip's voice. "Where the hell are you?"

"Almost there." The world was now just a spinning blur, but he still had hold of the rope. Don't let go.

Climb.

No net.

Don't let go.

Climb.

No net.

Don't let go.

Climb.

No ne--his right hand hit something hard.

The rail.

He heaved himself up, over, grunting as the movement turned his wounds to raw fire.

He hit the roof hard, too hard, had to grit his teeth not to yelp.

"Holy shit!" Antoine Triplett lowered his weapon, "You didn't say you were wounded!"

Of course he hadn't.

What if they'd decided to leave him?

He rolled over on his back, unclipped the rope from his rigging. Then he held up the thumb drive. Listened to the sound of the approaching chopper. "I'm wounded? Guess that explains the sudden loss of blood--"

"Come on, you dumb son of a bitch." Trip took the drive, hauled him to his feet. "Lets get you out of here."

Clint squinted at him, wondering if that was affection in the man's voice. But it couldn't be. He knew the team didn't like him--he was 'that bow and arrow guy'. 

Liability.

Then the chopper landed, the same one he'd helped hastily paint with a local news logo less than a week ago, and he had to focus on walking the last twenty feet.

~~+~~

|| (fourteen) Clint couldn't stop staring at the table. That? Was a fucking _lot_ of jewelry.

"Barney, maybe we shouldn't--"

"Shut up, Clint!" Barney exploded, coming off the bed fast, his fist cracking against Clint's jaw. "Fuck! Why do you always got to ask questions? You want to be a carnie all your life? Do you?"

He shook his head, blood already filling his mouth. "No."

"Then keep your fucking mouth closed, OK? None of the crew likes you. Hell, even Jacques doesn't like you." Barney grabbed a jacket, shrugged it on, and picked up his keys. "Fuck, but this would be so much easier if I wasn't stuck with your sorry ass."

Panic scrabbled at his chest, his throat tightening--was Barney thinking about leaving him again? "I'm sorry, Barney. I'm... I'm just being stupid. Don't be mad. Please."

"Yeah, well, just stay here, OK?" Barney shoved one gun in the waistband of his jeans, handed the other one to Clint. "Watch the goods until I get back. Even _you_ can do that, right?"

Clint nodded, took the gun.

Watched his brother walk out the door.

Then he dropped onto the bed, his heart still hammering against his chest, his throat too tight to get a clean breath of air. He fought for another breath, the gun heavy in his hand. 

Looked at the jewelry spread across the table.

As long as the goods were here, Barney would come back.

His brother _would_ come back.

This time. ||

~~+~~

(twenty-seven) "Hey, Clint. Good to see you back." Marge looked up from the register, her smile faltering. "You OK? You don't look so good."

"I'm OK." Clint managed a smile, gingerly sitting down at one of the six bar stools along the tiny counter. Marge's place was part convenience store and part tackle shop, with a tiny deli counter thrown in as an afterthought.

His stitched-up side had gone from 'fuck, not a good idea' to 'oh,shitshitshit, it really fuckin' hurts' a while back, but the cabin was only 20 minutes away. If he took a short break from driving, he could make it.

Maybe.

"I got stew." She was already fixing him a bowl. She looked up as the local tow truck driver came in. "Just put the money on the counter, Ed."

"Nice to see you back in town, Clint." Ed reached over the counter, hit the button on the register, made himself change out of the till. "It was pump eight--I'm going to need a receipt, or my accountant will kill me."

"Sure thing, I'll bring it to bingo on Friday." Marge shouted as Ed walked back outside. She put the soup down. "Let me get you some cornbread. Also, I got a new Belgian beer in, if you want a case. I ain't put it out, 'cuz it's too good for the weekenders."

The first time Clint was ever in Hensonville, Marge's grandson had gotten himself lost on a Boy Scout hike. He'd tracked the kid down, rescued him--and immediately found himself adopted by Marge and the rest of the townsfolk.

It was weird to be liked by people he only saw two or three times a year, but also.... nice.

"Sure, I'll take a case." He took a sip of the soup. Then he shoveled in a second spoonful, because oh shit, the stew? Was _amazing_.

"Like it? Sheriff brought me a side of elk the other day. The Roscoes' kid hit one over on Trenton road. He's lucky he's got a banged up leg and nothing else." She pulled the cornbread muffin out of the toaster oven, buttered it, and put it on a plate at his elbow.

Sitting was helping.

Well, sitting without being cramped in a car was helping. Lying down would help, like a _lot_ more, but he was just going to have to suck it up until he got to the cabin.

Then he could lie down.

With the good shit.

Military hospitals sucked, but at least they handed out drugs like candy.

"There you go, one case of beer." She set the case on the counter, smiled. "There's a big auction in Dubois next Saturday. Figured I'd tell you before you asked. Oh, and _The Country Kitchen_ is short a cook again--if you're needing cash."

"Might do that." He ate another spoonful, then asked the important question, because he had to know.

Besides all the money went to the volunteer firefighters for equipment and training and important stuff, so this was _not_ an addiction.

More like his civic duty.

An _important_ civic duty.

"So, where's the bingo game going to be? First Methodist or the VFA?"

~~+~~

|| (sixteen) Jacques rolled away, and Clint felt the mattress shift as Jacques got up.

"Don't forget--ten o'clock sharp." He pulled on his jeans, slid his wallet into a back pocket. Shrugged on his shirt. "That brother of yours better be there, too."

"If you say so, Jacques." Clint got up, hiding a wince, because he was _sore._ He began buttoning Jacques' shirt, keeping his eyes low, flirtatious. "But come on, he's my brother."

Jacques grabbed Clint's left ass cheek, and Clint twisted, grinding his hips against Jacques. Let his fingers slide lower. "Can't you cut him a little slack?"

"I can't keep making excuses for him." But Jacques' hands were all over Clint's ass now, and Clint knew he'd bought his brother a little more time.

"Fuck." Jacques pulled away when the phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. "Hey. Yeah? How many kilos do you need? Yeah, give me a sec. Sorry, kid, I got to take this."

Jacques grabbed a pack of smokes, lit one and dropped the pack into his shirt pocket. "OK, yeah. Same price as last time. Yeah, you too." He hung up, walked out the door without looking back.

Clint waited until Jacques shut the door, then he got up, heading for the bathroom. Stepped into the shower, turning the water on as hot as it would go.

It never helped.

He could still smell Jacques' cologne, could still feel Jacques' hands _touching_ him.

He _hated_ it, but...

All he’d ever wanted was just to be part of a bigger act. Not the drugs, not the robberies--and now Barney was drinking again, and this was Jacques, and…

He slid down the wall, and buried his face in his hands. ||

~~+~~

(twenty-seven) Clint huddled on the floor of the shower, swearing at the pain in his side. That asshole of a guard could have shot him _or_ stabbed him, but, no, the guy had to go and do _both._

Fucking overkill.

Clint giggled at his own joke.

So, shower, sort of. Check.

Next on the list: coffee, and more pain pills.

This? Was going to _suck._

He forced himself to stand--fuuuuck! oh shit, ow ow ow ow, fuuuuuck!!

He gritted his teeth, hobbled over to the towel rack. Grabbed a towel, sat down on the wide bench by the window. Then he worked the makeshift bandage off, yelping because removing medical tape from skin _hurt._

His stitches were kind of sort of dry.

Oops.

At least he'd finally washed off the funkiness of the hospital.

He dropped his head back against the wall, marshalling his strength for the walk to the kitchen. Probably should've gone to that rehab place instead of to Wyoming.

But hospitals sucked, and he liked his cabin.

And his bathroom.

Now. He liked it _now._

The original bathroom had been yellow.

Not just yellow, but like-- _yellow._

Yellow tiles, yellow sink, yellow toilet, and a badly cracked yellow tub. Somebody must've really loved the color or gone off their meds, because the other bathrooms had been equally yellow. There'd also been some tacky brass and plastic butterfly light fixtures, but Clint was trying to forget _those_ had ever existed.

Bathroom remodels? Were fucking _complicated._

He'd finally found what he'd wanted in a magazine, simple and white: subway tiles, pedestal sinks, new toilets. Marge's son-in-law had done the plumbing work for cheap, and Clint had worked as a short order cook during his last couple of 'vacations' to pay for the rest. He'd bought tubs and sinks at auction, the subway tile at a discount place, splurged on hexagon floor tiles and a walk-in shower for the upstairs bath.

And an old hutch.

Clint had seen the idea in one of those blogs he now followed, found the perfect hutch at a garage sale. He'd removed the doors, changed the legs, painted it black. Stacked with white towels against the white subway tiles, the hutch looked _awesome_.

The hutch, the front porch chairs, the bench he was sitting on.

His bed.

He'd bought the wooden frame cheap at an auction. It was huge and circular and he'd spent _hours_ patiently sanding and staining the frame, and then he'd spent stupid amounts of money buying a circular mattress, but the bed was worth it, because it was round and it fucking _rotated_.

He was getting pretty good at turning crap into OK-looking shit--his problem was the stupid _decorating._

No, scratch that--his problem was the stupid kitchen. He'd stripped the wallpaper, but he was stuck with the orange counter tops until he picked out new kitchen cabinets.

Still--he had six weeks this time.

Six weeks of medical leave, and an auction next Saturday. That was enough time to work on the kitchen, maybe even find beds for the other bedrooms.

Couch He needed to buy a couch.

OK, new list: coffee and a tape measure and a whole bunch of pain pills. Maybe some beer.

Because measuring the kitchen was going to hurt.

Like, a _lot._

~~+~~

|| (nineteen) Lucky.

Clint hated the word. He balanced carefully, the knee joint of his leg brace locked. Then he let the arrows fly.

Buck Chisholm's words echoed in his head. _You're lucky to be alive. That son of a bitch tried to kill you._

He kept firing, ignoring the burn in his leg, the grinding ache in his back every time he pulled on the bowstring.

He wasn't lucky.

He was _stupid_.

He'd been stupid to trust Jacques, the rest of the gang.

His _brother_.

He should've figured it out years ago, the first time Barny left. Nobody could be trusted, _especially_ not Barney.

And definitely not Buck Chisholm. But--Buck could help him get even.

Clint finally hit the bullseye, his arm trembling from the effort.

He nocked another arrow. ||

~~+~~

(twenty-seven) Clint dropped his duffel bag on the cot.

"Barton?"

He turned, saw Trip striding across the barracks floor, a grin on his face. "Hey. You look good, man. How was your time off?"

1\. He'd found a beautiful old porcelain kitchen sink at an auction.

2\. He'd won seventy five dollars at bingo and spent seventy-one of those same dollars on the sink.

3\. He'd tried to electrocute himself installing a new ceiling fan.

4\. He'd picked up some morning shifts at The Country Kitchen, used the money to buy parts for the old generator. The damn thing _still_ wasn't working. He had, however, mastered the art of potato pancakes.

5\. He'd spent an entire weekend helping Ed's wife bake for the First Methodist Annual Christmas Toy Drive. She'd taught him how to make fudge, and let him keep the apron.

Clint shrugged, "I did some training."

"Uh huh." Trip gave him an amused look. "Barton, you train the way other people eat. Seriously, do you do anything _but_ train?"

1\. He'd found a couch on Craigslist that was black and leather and chrome and looked almost exactly like one he’d seen on his favorite blog. He’d talked the guy into selling him the couch for fifty bucks and throwing in a really fucking cool floor lamp for free.

2\. He'd peeled the self-stick mirror tiles off the basement ceiling, and wound up with a sliced open hand and eleven stitches. Self-stick mirror tiles were _evil_.

3 . He'd bought a ginormous propane stove at a garage sale.. It was cheap and awesome and didn't fit in the kitchen, so he'd spent three days ripping out cabinets to make it fit.

4\. He'd ripped out the rest of the kitchen cabinets. He'd then ripped out the rest of the stupid orange counter tops, and bought another case of Belgian beer to celebrate.

5\. He'd winterized the cabin before he left and only had to make three trips to town to get the stuff to do it. Which _totally_ beat his old record of five trips.

Clint had done _lots_ of stuff besides train. "Only had six weeks, remember? I did try a new beer. Belgian."

"Glad to hear you squeezed some time to have fun into your busy schedule." Trip's gin widened. "If you want, we can go to Lucy's tonight. I hear they have imported beers."

"Lucy's?" Clint was confused. Why would he be going to a bar tonight?

"Yup. Now that you're back, we're celebrating." Trip clapped him on the back. "Thanks to Beijing, they’ve now made you an E-4."

It dawned on Clint that Trip was genuinely happy for him. He thought about the silken, sweet taste of homemade fudge, and the way Ed's wife had teased him about his addiction to bingo and hugged him before he left.

"Sure." He smiled back. "Lucy's sounds good."

~~+~~

(eight) Clint stretched out carefully, the ancient tin roof creaking and swaying under his weight. He laced his hands behind his head, staring up at the blue sky.

The sun was warm on his face.

He closed his eyes, wishing he could just stay up here. No Miss Beth, or the other kids teasing him, or stupid school.

No stupid brother...

"Clinton?"

"Clinton, answer me. I know you're up there."

He scooted over, the entire chicken coop shaking from the movement.

Casey pushed his cap back, "Aww, Clinton. What's the matter now?"

Clint shrugged. "Nothin'."

_Stupid cigarettes._

Barney and some of the other boys had sneaked in a pack of cigarettes. He _hated_ the smell. Daddy had always smelled of cigarettes and whiskey. People thought he didn't remember Mommy and Daddy 'cuz he'd been little when they died, but he did remember. He remembered lots of stuff--lots of _bad_ stuff.

"Well, you can't stay up there. That ol' roof ain't safe."

"Ooohhkay." Clint slid to the edge of the roof, then climbed down, being extra careful 'cuz of the rotting chicken wire. He jammed his hands in his pockets."Casey? Why aren't there any chickens?"

"I don't know. Miss Beth just don't like them, I guess. When Miss Martha was running things, we had us a whole farm, chickens and pigs and everything." Casey patted Clint's shoulder. "Now you stay off that chicken coop--and don't go climbing on the roof of the old barn, either. I don't want you falling and getting hurt."

"Yes, Casey." But he made sure to cross his fingers so it didn't count. ||

~~+~~

(twenty-eight) _He burrowed into the back of the closet, jamming himself among the boots and shoes. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, clamped his hands over his ears, but he could still hear the screams--_

Clint's eyes flew open.

Cabin.

Rain.

He pulled the quilt higher, curling tight around one of the extra pillows, Listened to the rain pounding the metal roof.

He kept trying to forget--about his mom and dad, about the bad stuff.

He _wanted_ to forget.

Stupid cigarette smoke.

They didn't allow smoking in the bingo hall, but people had been smoking in the parking lot afterwards, and there'd been no way to avoid walking past them.

He _hated_ cigarette smoke.

He also needed to pee.

Clint got up, but instead of going to the bathroom, he padded, naked, over to the windows. The rain was running down the glass, and the world beyond was a smear of grays. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, breathing in the familiar smells of the cabin.

It helped.

It always helped. The cabin, and the ever-growing list of stuff that needed to be done.

He straightened, rubbed the back of his neck.

OK, list.

The rain meant he couldn't fix the screens on the back porch. He could hang doors, though. He'd never intended to replace the cabin's crappy doors, but a set of 15 old wooden doors had been at the auction last summer and they were just too fucking cool to pass up.

He'd not only won the bid, but the doors fucking _fit._

He'd assumed he'd only to be able to use a few of them, but 9 doors were the right size for the main cabin, and 3 more were perfect for the basement.

It’d been one of his better hauls. He'd gotten another punching bag for the makeshift gym in the garage, a new-ish sander, a couple of cool retro-looking chairs, and several boxes of books, because--well, romance novels.

Which he _only_ read because he believed in supporting the Hensonville Book Club Exchange. Which took place once a month at Ethel's, who was an awesome baker, or at Doreen's, who was an amazing cook.

He needed a bookshelf.

Scratch that--he needed a _library_.

And a kitchen.

Also? He needed to pee and he needed coffee and he needed pants.

Clint crossed the loft to the bathroom, took a quick piss, pulled on a pair of sweats. Then he took the stairs, one hand trailing down the railing.

Which he'd fixed _himself_.

OK, yeah, maybe the cabin did still need a lot of crap. He'd done all right over the past five years. He ripped out all the carpet and vinyl flooring, refinished the floors and stairs. He'd also remodeled the bathrooms, replaced molding and light fixtures, put a new roof on the garage, and painted most of the inside of the cabin and the entire fucking basement.

Thankfully the loft and the living room were knotted pine paneling, because painting? Sucked.

Not as much as sanding, maybe, but it still _sucked._

He reached the kitchen. Well, it was kind of sort of a kitchen. Clint had made a makeshift stand for the sink out of cinderblock and plywood, set one of the old crappy doors on a pair of sawhorses as a table, stacked some milk cartons for storage by the ugly green fridge. He kept the microwave on the top of the fridge and the coffee maker on the stove, and he'd only melted one corner of it.

So far.

Clint started the coffee, poured cereal into a bowl--and then remembered.

Awww, milk.

He put the bowl of dry cereal in the fridge, rummaged for the leftovers he'd taken home from The Country Kitchen. He had a choice of--he pulled containers out of the bag--clam chowder, tuna salad, or salisbury steak.He took a tentative nibble of the salisbury steak. It was tough and dried out from three days in his fridge.

Fixable.

He smothered it in clam chowder, shoved the container in the microwave.

So, new list: breakfast, archery practice, hang the last three doors, milk.

Or...

He could stop flipping through catalogs, and drive over to the IKEA store in Colorado, look at bookcases.

And kitchens cabinets.

And maybe a rug for the living room.

It was like, 6 hours away and stupid to drive that far for bookcases, but-- _IKEA._

~~+~~

|| (nine) He was so, so cold. Colder than he'd ever been, ever.

Clint tried to jam his hands deeper in his coat pockets, because his fingers _hurt_. His face was being scraped raw by the wind, his lungs aching from the freezing cold air. "Please Barney, can't we stop? I'm _cold_."

His brother spun, leg kicking out, and Clint hit the ground. His chin smacked something, and there was a bright burst of pain as he bit his tongue.

"Shut the fuck up!" Barney's hands were balled into fists and Clint instinctively curled to defend himself. "I've got a plan, OK? But if you like that fuckin' orphanage so much, then go ahead, go back. What do I care? You're such a crybaby anyway."

Clint _was_ crying, because his mouth was full of blood and his tongue hurt and his chin hurt. He was more scared, though, of what Barney would do.

Barney got mad when he cried.

He dragged a sleeve over his face. "I'm sorry, Barney. I won't cry no more, I promise."

"Yeah, whatever." Barney turned, started walking again. "Just fuckin' keep up, crybaby."||

~~+~~

(twenty-eight) Winter. The night was clear and cold, and the full moon lit up the landscape like a fucking search light. Bad night for their line of work, but they were RATs.

RATs did what they were told to do.

But holy shit, it was fuckin' _cold_.

Clint kept his body low, boots crunching through the snow's thin crust. He was like, really cold.

And his jaw hurt. That last guard had gotten lucky, gotten a punch in.

Still--over a dozen hostiles, and only one had managed to land a punch.

Sometimes? Working on a team didn't suck.

Much.

He angled eastward, following the map in his head. Plowed through the heavier drifts piled against the ridge, then made his way over the small rock outcropping--

Bingo.

The guard was stationed right where their informant had said he would be.

Spin, kick, lunge.

Snap.

The guard went down.

Clint knelt, pulled off his gloves, took out the explosives--and looked up as a shadow fell across his hands.

Damnit, there was a second guard!

But another shadow was suddenly there--Johnny, moving in to neutralize the hostile. Clint stuffed down the knee jerk reaction to defend himself, kept setting the next charge.

Don't fuck this up.

Stick to the mission.

Besides, this was Johnny, and Johnny was a fuckin' tank who never missed. Johnny swung out, one massive fist hitting the guard in the gut.

The guard crumpled.

Yeah. Like _that_.

Clint finished, glanced over. Trip was in position now, a few yards to Clint's left. Clint set the charge, put his gloves back on, and waited to be given the signal.

Instead of giving it, Trip pointed to Clint, then to his own mouth, silently asking if Clint was all right.

Surprised, Clint nodded, making the 'OK' sign.

That’s when Trip gave the signal to fall back.

Time to let the explosives do the dirty work for them.

Clint slipped over the first ridge, boots sinking deep into the drifts again. He kept walking, slogging through the stupid, stupid snow. Put his gloved hand to his swollen lip.

There was no blood, so why had Trip asked?

He dropped his hand, did another check of the map in his head. The rendezvous point was nearly two hundred yards due south. He picked up his pace. He still thought blowing up a place with this much possible Intel was a stupid idea, but hey, he was a RAT.

RATs did what they were told.

His legs sank deep into another drift, and he swore mentally.

Fuckin' moon, fuckin' cold. Fuckin' guard.

His jaw _hurt._

But Trip... Trip had asked because he noticed, because...

Because--well, _team._

And being on a team was OK. Sometimes.

~~+~~

|| (ten) Clint slung the quiver over his shoulder, wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, and picked up the bow. He took a breath.

OK.

OK, he could do this.

He weaved his way through the trucks and campers, to Bertha's trailer, a gleaming Airstream that stuck out from the rest. Bertha was rich, she and her kids ran nearly the entire food court.

AJ and Bertha and some of the other carnies were sitting in the shade of the trailer's awning, drinking.

AJ saw him first. He'd been a carnie for years; he was old and skinny, and when he smiled, his crooked teeth were stained from tobacco juice. "You're gonna lose, kid."

Clint raised his chin a little higher. He wasn't going to lose. He _wasn't_. "We made a bet."

"Yup." AJ pointed. "And the target is over there, on that tree. Go on, show me what you've learned in a week."

Clint squinted.

The tree AJ pointed to was more than a hundred yards away and the target was one of those flimsy paper ones from the Midway.

Definitely more than a hundred yards, and the bullseye was small.

OK, he could _still_ do this.

AJ thought he'd been practicing for a week, but Clint had been 'borrowing' AJ's bows for _months_. It was easy enough. AJ was in Bertha's trailer a lot more than he was in his own, and was usually too stoned to notice if his stuff was moved around some.

That's how Clint had found the bow.

It wasn't as fancy as the other bows AJ owned; it was simple, wooden, with a black grip. But it felt _right_ , like it was meant to fit in his hand. Clint had never dared to want anything, but he really wanted that bow.

And now that he'd tricked AJ into the bet, he just had to hit the bullseye to win it.

"Go on, kid. Take your best shot." Bertha was just as skinny as AJ, but ten times meaner. She wore too much makeup and her stringy hair was dyed bright red and she always smelled of whiskey. "Bet we'll get a lot of work out of you in the next three months."

Clint shuddered. He didn't want to think what would happen if he lost the bet.

He took a deep breath, nocked the arrow.

"We're waiting, kid."

He heard the mocking in AJ's voice and something boiled up inside of him, hot and bitter. He started firing, one arrow after another. One, two three, four, five, six. Six arrows, all bunched neatly in the tiny bullseye.

"Holy shit!" AJ was on his feet, staring at the target.

"Now _that's_ what I call good shooting." Rattlesnake Bob looked at AJ, then over to Clint. "Kid's got a good arm. Might want to put him in that your show of yours."

AJ reached out and Clint steeled himself for the blow.

But AJ merely laid his hand on Clint's shoulder. "OK, kid. Show me what else you can do with that bow." ||

~~+~~

(twenty-nine) Clint and Trip hunched over the bar and drank.

Johnny was gone.

He'd died on leave. He'd been driving drunk, crossed the white line, hit another car head on. He’d died at the scene.

That? Was fucked up.

It was _seriously_ fucked up but there was nobody to be mad at 'cept Johnny. For getting behind the wheel, for killing himself, for killing another family.

_Like his dad killed his mom._

Fuuuuuuck.

Clint took a pull of his beer, some Australian ale. It tasted like crap, but it was wet and it was beer and sometimes, it was a little scary how many drinks he could let slide down his throat--

Trip was sitting on Clint's left, tapped his shoulder.

That? Was also fucked up. Clint'd been punched and kicked and smacked around for as long as he could remember. Then an insurgent threw him into a bulkhead three months ago, bam! He was suddenly deaf in one ear.

Clint turned his head.

Five college kids were walking in. Two-hundred dollar haircuts, perfect teeth, watches that probably cost more than his new compound bow.

Trip got to his feet. Clint followed.

It was easy.

It always was with kids like this.

Trip did the talking;. money laid down, rules hashed out. Clint let it all flow over him, let Trip hand him the first dart.

He squinted. The dart was badly weighted, the bullseye tiny.

He hit the bullseye anyway.

One.

Two.

Three.

Clint had a single dart left, was about to win for the third time. One of the kids had started mouthing off two games ago, his buddies were sullen and mad. They were clearly not going to leave without trying to get their money back. Which meant he and Trip weren't going to leave without a fight, and holy shit, their C.O. was going to be pissed at them tomorrow if they tore up another bar.

He thought about Johnny's hands, always wrapped around a Coors Light because that's the only beer he would ever drink.

He looked back at Trip, who gave him the slightest of shrugs. _Your call._

_Fuck it._

Clint threw the last dart.

~~+~~

|| (twenty) "....officer-involved shoot out today in the commercial district of Highgrove..."

Clint sat on the couch, staring at the TV, only half-listened to the reporter's voice. He was focused on what was in the background; coroner's van, stretcher, body bag.

_Jacques Duquesne._

Clint couldn't take his eyes off the screen, that body bag.

Jacques was dead.

Fuck.

"...alleged to be involved in a string of robberies...."

Clint had figured it out. Everybody said he was stupid, but he wasn't. 

He _wasn't._

He'd watched the news. He'd read the papers, studied maps and roads and even used the internet. And when he figured out where Jacques and his crew were going to strike next, he'd told Buck.

Because Buck had _promised._

"...both officers will be suspended, pending a review...."

Fuckfuck _fuck_.

Buck had broken his promise. He must’ve called the cops and collected the reward, instead.

Clint heard footsteps on the stairs. He picked up the remote, clicked the TV off. When the door opened, he stood up. "I want half of the reward."

He didn't really want half, but he wanted something, because Buck had _promised_. They were supposed to take down Jacques together; that was the deal.

Buck stopped. Then he laughed. "Right. I've been letting you freeload off of me for over a year, remember?"

Clint didn't know what to do. Buck was smiling, like this was funny. 

Like this was a fucking _joke_.

"Besides, the bastard's dead, which is what you wanted. Idiot tried to shoot it out with a SWAT team; it's all over the news." Buck crossed to the fridge, grabbed a beer. "Now, grab your bow, you should be practicing.”

He popped the top, turned back around--and frowned. “Hey, what's your problem?"

"Nothing. Nothing’s my problem." Clint spit the words out. He grabbed his bow and quiver, walked to the door, slammed it behind him. It was cold; he took the stairs two at a time to stay warm.

He should've known. Nobody kept their promises--nobody. 

And now Jacques was dead, and....

_Fuck._

At least this time, he was prepared.

Clint pulled his motorcycle keys out of his pocket. He'd been stashing stuff under his bike’s seat in case he needed to leave. An extra gun,some credit cards he'd 'borrowed', a wad of cash, a couple of fake IDs--

Awww, shit.

_Coat._

He rubbed the back of his neck, looked up at the apartment. 

Looked back at the bike. 

_Fuck._

His plan had been to head to Chicago, but it was already after six, and cold. Once the sun dropped, he was going to freeze his ass off.

But--he wasn't going back. This wasn't the first time Buck had lied to him, but it was going to be the _last._

Clint tied his bow and quiver to the bike with bungee cords, grabbed a hoodie and his spare gloves from the saddlebags. He pulled them on, unlocked his helmet. A few minutes later, he was pulling onto the main road, the wind already cutting through the thin flannel.

Oh yeah, this? Was going to really suck.

He lowered his head, and kicked up the gear anyway. ||

~~+~~

(twenty-nine) For the first time in months, Clint was unaware of how fucking hot the tent was, or how there was sand every-fucking-where.

He sat on the cot, his elbows on his knees, and stared down at his boots. Tried to breath around the pressure in his chest.

Six.

Five of their guys, a damn good pilot, and two green-as-hell recruits.

Eight.

Eight body bags, though he heard there wasn’t much left to send home.. He’d seen the crash site from the air--the insurgents hadn’t left much of the chopper, either.

_Fuck._

The tent flap opened, closed.

Trip sank down next to him, looking just as exhausted and just as pissed off. For a couple of minutes, they just sat there, knee against knee.

When Trip finally spoke, his voice was low, full of gravel. “Guess you heard about the C.O.?”

Clint nodded, though he hadn’t heard. The whole operation had been a clusterfuck for the past three months, too many NATO troops wandering around clueless, too much useless Intel. Somebody had to be blamed and he’d already figured out it would be their C.O.

It was also a given that in the next couple of days they would be ordered to evacuate this shithole.

Which really pissed him off, because this tiny fucking scrap of desert was important. Clint wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, but even he could count. The U.S. didn’t have a lot of allies on this side of the globe, except Israel and screw what they said on the TV back home, those fuckers were too paranoid to be trusted.

Trip fell silent again. Clint had no idea how many minutes ticked by before Trip spoke again, his voice even more ragged from emotion and exhaustion. “Clint? Are you gonna re-up?”

Clint was surprised and yet, he wasn’t surprised, by the question.

They’d both been talking around the subject for the last few months. Trip had been in the military since he was 18, had already re-enlisted once. He could re-enlist, but he’d have to switch to a different outfit if he wanted to pull his full 20 years.

Clint had a different contract--six years, plus an extra year for ‘special circumstances’. He figured that was some pencil-pusher’s way of saying ‘bailing your ass out of a maximum security prison.’ He’d spent too much time in one unit, though. If he re-enlisted, he didn’t have enough points racked up to stay a RAT.

“I--I don’t know.” Clint’d never expected to stick with the army thing. Except he’d discovered that the world was even more fucked up than he was, and being a RAT meant sometimes he got to make a difference. He also kind of liked being part of a team, and knowing somebody had his back.

 _Shit._ That sounded like one of the stupid recruitment ads.

His watch beeped. Time for dinner--no, scratch that, breakfast. Pulling so many double shifts messed with his head. Clint heaved himself to his feet. “You?”

"This is me, I was born to be in the military, but I--I don’t have a fuckin’ clue anymore.” Trip's shoulders sagged, and he got to his feet with a groan. “I swear, if they’re serving oatmeal again, I’m going to puke.”

”Can I have yours, then?”

It was a weak joke, but Trip gave him a weak smile to match, and followed him out of the tent.

~~+~~

|| (eight) Clint sat down on the last step of the basement stairs, quietly watching. Casey was working on the boiler. He had the side open, was doing something to the knot of wires inside.

"There." Casey closed the boiler. "That ought to do it. So, how was school today?"

Clint shrugged. "OK. I, uh, read today. Aloud."

"See?" Casey carefully laid his tools in the bright red toolbox. "I knew you could do it."

"They laughed." Clint could feel his face turning red, as he remembered how the other kids had giggled when he stumbled through the words.

"You just need more practice, that's all. You ain't going to get any better at reading 'less you try. Scoot over." Clint shifted over and Casey pulled a folded piece of newspaper out of the back of his overalls, sat down. "Here. I saved us the front page of the sports section. Read me what it says."

Clint took it--and immediately got stuck on the first word. "The Eye-wa--"

"I-o-wa." Casey corrected. "Take your time and spell it out. See? I-o-wa."

Clint tried again. "The I-o-wa Ha-w-k-eyes lost this Sat-ur-day to the On-tar-i-o--" He stopped, "Is that right?"

"Almost. Ontar-e-o. That's a province, kind of like a state, way up there in Canada." Casey smiled down at him. "You're doing just fine, Clinton. Go on, read me the rest." ||

~~+~~

(thirty) It was one of his nightly--not rituals, Clint didn't do rituals. _Things._ It was one of his nightly things when he was home. Wandering through the cabin, adding and subtracting stuff to the list in his head.  
He always started in the basement. The basement had been a scary place when he first bought the cabin.

The kitchenette had been brown and more brown, with cabinets badly warped by water damage. The main room had been far worse; ugly reddish-gold wallpaper and orange shag carpet and mirrored ceiling tiles.

Clint had stripped the basement down to its bones, spent hours painting everything white, and salvaging the original wooden floor. He'd turned the small bedroom into an armory for his extra weapons, scrounged white kitchen cabinets from a rehab store, bought a sink and ceiling lights at a scratch-and-dent sale at the Ace Hardware over in Dubois.

He headed up the stairs, ticking stuff off in his head: Furniture for the main room, a fridge for the kitchenette, another cupboard for his arrows.

He opened the door at the top of the stairs, went left, down the back hallway. The two bedrooms in the back were finished, though Clint doubted he'd ever have guests. He'd gotten the idea from a blog; turned some old waterbed frames into platform beds, painted a couple of cheap nightstands solid black, added vaguely retro lamps and simple gray bedding.

Easy and cheap.

He added to the list: A ceiling fan for the other bedroom, some chairs for the back porch.

Clint banked the fire in the woodstove in the bigger of the two bedrooms, meandered back into the living room.

He fucking _loved_ his living room.

Two retro chairs, a black and white cowhide he’d found at a flea market, and a really cool sofa that was chrome and black leather.

And a modern-looking coffee table.

Which he had made--sort of. He'd dragged home a wooden crate from the dump, sawed off the bottom, stained it to match the wood of the chairs.

His favorite thing, though, was the vintage Robin Hood Flour sign propped on the mantle. He'd found it in a junk shop in Cheyenne, and had probably paid too much, but, hey-- _Robin Hood._

OK, list: He really needed to sand the door to the basement, because it kept sticking.

He banked the fire in the wood stove in the corner, and walked into the dining room.

He'd stolen the idea for the table from a magazine. Clint had bought fifteen-foot pine planks from a salvage yard in Cheyenne, then paid Ed to weld metal pipes into a long frame. It’d been a pain in the ass to bolt and brace the wooden planks to the frame, but the result was one kick-ass looking table.

In fact, the table looked so cool that he'd used the same design for the kitchen. He'd plastered and painted the entire space last winter, then had Ed weld three more frames, which wrapped in an 'L' around the kitchen. Clint then bolted on some butcher block countertops, had the old porcelain sink professionally installed, and finally, bought a rolling kitchen island from IKEA.

Ok, yeah, it was weird not to go with traditional cabinets, but it was _his_ kitchen. Besides, it wasn't like he needed the storage space. His pans fit in the oven, and all the other stuff fit, with room to spare, in the island.

Um, list: He needed chairs. He'd bought a couple of benches at an auction and a set of four chairs at a recent garage sale, but it was a _big_ table.

Clint opened the fridge, hesitated. Polish ale or Australian stout? He grabbed the ale, popped the top. He drank it while mentally adding to the list.

A new fridge--one that _wasn't_ avocado green.

A new vent thing for the downstairs bathroom.

He also needed to waterproof the front porch, put weather stripping around the front door, and clean the chimney. And he really, really do something about the garage. He kept meaning to turn it into a gym, but it’d kind of turned into a giant heap of crap, mostly broken tools and leftovers from different projects.

Also? He needed money--and a job.

He’d quit the military, and taxes were due in, um--he stopped to count. Four months.

_Shit._

Clint finished the beer, and went upstairs. At least the upstairs was done. He hadn't done much to the loft section; just added a floor lamp and his really big, really awesome round bed. He banked the fire in the woodstove and stepped into the tiny upstairs bedroom, which he’d turned into a fucking _library_.

He'd started with a shelving system from IKEA. It was black and had staggered sections of different heights, running almost like a staircase along one entire wall. He'd added a cheap throw rug, hung a hammock from the beams. And yeah, OK, most of the books were either how to fix shit around a house, or romance novels. but still--it was a real, honest-to-goodness library.

With a hammock.

Which was cool as fuck _and_ his favorite place to nap.

Clint grabbed the book he was currently reading, yet _another_ historical romance. Which was all Ethel’s fault--she kept loaning him books about Victorian England, and medieval Scotland, and even Vikings. This one was about Regency England and Clint knew enough now to know the author had gotten the historical stuff _mostly_ right.

He headed for the bathroom, read a chapter while brushing his teeth. He stripped, turned off all the lights except the floor lamp, and crawled into bed. He read another couple of chapters, then shoved the book under his pillow, and let sleep pull him down.

~~+~~

|| (seventeen) _We'll run some tests later, but he should be fine. You can see him in the morning._  
Fuck the doctor.

Fuck 'visiting hours only'.

Clint waited for an orderly to go into another patient's room, then he stepped out from behind the cart, slipped into the hospital room.

Barney was sleeping, hooked up to some machines, an IV. He looked OK.

Alive.

Suddenly Clint was reliving it all again.

He'd come home, thought Barney was asleep on the couch. Until he heard it.

A weird gurgling, choking sound.

Clint had tried shake his brother awake, but at his touch Barney had rolled boneless off the couch, his face blue, his legs and arms flopping when he hit the carpet.

That's when Barney stopped breathing.

Clint snapped back to _now_ when heard footsteps in the hall. He froze, but the person kept walking. He touched Barney's hand.

It was warm.

He started shaking, because this time had been close, too fucking close.

Fucking heroin. Fucking _drugs_. Fucking Jacques, for getting his brother hooked.

More footsteps, the sound of a cart being pushed down the hall. He pulled his hand away. 

Time to go.

“Barney? I’’ll, uh, come back. Tomorrow. I promise.”

Clint cracked the door open. The aide pushing the cart had her back to him. He slipped into the hall, made it to the stairwell without being seen. He had his sneaker on the first step when he heard voices. He looked down, saw a couple of women in scrubs coming up the stairs.

Awww, shit.

He turned, and went up instead, taking the stairs two at a time. He paused on the next landing, listening.  
The women were just below him.

Fuckfuck _fuck._

He jogged up the one more flight, and then another, just to be safe. He wound up on a landing with yet another flight of stairs to his left--and to his right, an old fire door with a faded sign, 'Roof Access. Authorized Personnel Only'.”

_Roof Access._

It was an offer Clint couldn’t pass up. He reached for his tools, then remembered. He checked, but there was no wires, so no risk of some stupid security alarm going off. He picked the lock, stepped out into the hot mugginess of a summer evening. A security light threw a pool of light around the doorway. He walked slowly to the rim of the circle, picking his way carefully because the roof was in bad shape. The gravel was uneven and so thin in places, he could see long cracks in the tar underneath.

He hesitated, then took another few steps into the darkness, skirting a couple of vents. He took another step--Ow!

Clint hit his shin hard on something, maybe a pipe?

He rubbed his leg, limped over to his goal--the edge of the building. He was on the oldest section of the hospital, only eight stories up, but it was still high enough. The city was spread out beneath him, everything reduced to shapes and movement.

He sat down on the ledge, let his legs dangle over. It was a dark night, even with the street lights. The world was mostly grays and blacks, with the occasional flash of a yellow cab in the flow of traffic beyond the hospital.

Simple.

Easy to understand.

The way life should be, but never was.

He could still hear it. That weird gurgling, choking sound Barney had made earlier.

Fuck.

He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to find some way to convince Barney that they needed to leave.

He bit his lip.

Unless--unless he could do something that would convince Jacque to kick them out.

He pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around his legs, and started thinking. ||

~~+~~

(thirty) No cereal.

Clint sighed.

Buying groceries? Was fucking _complicated_.

He pulled a frozen pizza out of the freezer and the pans out of the stove. He transferred the pizza to the pizza stone he'd won last year in the PTA raffle, shoved it in the oven, then poured himself a second cup of coffee. Leaned against the counter.

OK, today's list. Groceries.

And stuff that didn't cost money. Like, cleaning the chimney.

He also had some weather stripping. Somewhere. So, weatherize the front door--and maybe check if the diner over in Dubois was hiring, since The Country Kitchen had closed down.

He finished his second cup, headed for the garage to find the weather stripping.

Clint had a system. The first bay was for his rental car, the second bay was work out equipment, the third bay was for crap; broken tools, stuff from projects, and stuff _for_ projects.

Well, OK, maybe his system wasn’t much of a system. The third pile had taken over the second pile a long time ago, and was now creeping steadily towards the first bay.

It wasn't his fault. He _was_ busy.

Scratch that-- _had_ been busy.

Now he was just unemployed.

Stupid military with their stupid point system. Stupid economy. He'd _liked_ The Country Kitchen.

Clint started searching, finally found the roll of weatherstripping sitting on the shelf of a bookcase he'd rescued from the dump, but never had time to fix. He tossed the roll in his red toolbox.

So--where was the chain?

It took a few more minutes of digging to find it. He grabbed his toolbox, draped the chain over his neck, snagged the ladder. He carried it all to the foot of the steps, went up the stairs carefully. Then he dropped everything on the porch and went inside to check the pizza.

Done--and only a _little_ burnt.

He scrounged for a couple of hot pads, pulled the pizza out.

While the pizza cooled, Clint dragged out the old window he kept stored in the closet under the stairs. This was a trick Ed’d taught him. Cleaning a chimney was messy enough without getting ashes and crap all over the living room. And the window was the perfect size, just a little wider than the fireplace opening. He moved the fireplace screen, leaned the window against the fireplace, put the screen back.

OK--now, he was really hungry.

Fifteen minutes later, fortified by half a pizza and a third cup of coffee, Clint hauled himself up onto the roof. Instead of working, though, he stood for a long minute, taking in the view.

It was a fucking _awesome_ view.

The cabin sat on the highest point of the property, a wide clearing surrounded by trees on three sides, and a low craggy ridge to the north. It was early fall; the clearing was a wide streak of tawny gold, surrounded by a world of green pine, with a few bright brushstrokes of yellow aspens.

And just beyond the northern ridge, the distant blue smear of mountains. If Clint squinted to the south, he could even see bits of gray amongst the trees, the last remnants of an old logging flume that had once sent fallen timbers down the creek, to the river beyond.

Usually it helped to be this far up, everything reduced to simple colors and shapes. But today there was a heavy ball of worry in his stomach, because--taxes.

Why couldn't life just be _simple?_

He sighed, and pulled his eyes away from the view, removed the cap. He threaded the heavy chain down the chimney, began banging it around. This was another trick Ed had taught him. It also seemed like a really good way to damage something, but he'd finally scraped up enough money to have the chimney professionally cleaned and inspected three years ago, and he’d discovered the chimney was older than the house. Much older, and solidly built, with two layers of stone. 

This still wasn't the best way to clean a chimney, but it was affordable, and he knew the chimney was sturdy enough to take it. He finished, put the cap back on, and clambered off the roof. He folded up the ladder, leaned it against the cabin--and that’s when it dawned on him then that it might be a good idea to store the chain _with_ the window.

Clint kicked himself mentally for not having thought of that, like, six years ago.

It took only a few minutes to put the old window and chain away, a few more to sweep out the mess in the fireplace. He hadn't had much of a chance to use the fireplace last winter, but he was going to make up for it this year.

Especially if he didn't get a job.

Stupid, stupid economy.

Clint ate one more piece of pizza, stuck the rest in the fridge, and went back outside to put the ladder away.

He was halfway down the stairs when it happened. A leg of the ladder hit a step, and the entire ladder shifted in his grasp. 

_Shit._

For a second, he fumbled, trying not to drop the ladder--and then he lost his footing. Owowow! He tumbled down the stairs, left hip hitting the railing, right elbow hitting the last step. He slammed hard into the ground and his right arm exploded into a bright burst of pain.

The ladder landed right next to him, mere inches from his head.  
.  
Oh, fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck _fuuuck._

Clint gritted his teeth against the searing pain shooting up his arm, looked down.

Shit. 

Shitfuckshit. Broken.

His wrist--his _right_ wrist-- was definitely broken.

Oh, fuckfuckfuck.

~~+~~

|| (twenty-one) Clint opened the ceiling panel slowly, careful not to make any noise. He needn't have bothered. The bodies of two guards sprawled lifeless in the tiny office, one guard with an arrow in his throat, another with an arrow in his chest.

Shit.

The office was the control center of the building's security system, but there were other ways to shut down the cameras and alarms. This was just killing for the sake of killing.

Something twisted in Clint's chest, very much like guilt. Buck had always been brutally efficient during a heist, but he'd become crueler, meaner in the past year.

Ever since Clint had left.

Well, tonight he was going to stop Buck, once and for all. He dropped from the ceiling to the floor, then wove his way through the bodies, cracked the door open.

Fuck.

Another dead guard, pinned to the wall by two arrows.

Clint slipped into a dim hallway, lit only by lights over the bathroom doors, and the exit sign at the far end.

The hall led to another hall and then another, a maze of corridors that seemed to go on forever. He moved cautiously, constantly checking over his shoulder, double-checking each door.

Offices, and _more_ offices.

He stepped over one more dead guard, while his eyes flicked up, noticing yet _another_ security camera. The insane security measures confirmed his suspicions; this wasn't a typical office building.

Clint had figured it out. He'd figured out what Buck was doing, and why he was now hitting different businesses in the state, instead of stealing art from private homes.

Scratch that. He knew why Buck was hitting these specific businesses--Mick Mahone. He just hadn't figured out _why_ Buck was going after Mahone. 

Going after a major mob boss was _stupid._

Even Clint knew that, and he'd done a _lot_ of stupid things.

He was about to head around the corner when he heard it--the soft snick of a door closing.

He peeked cautiously down the next hallway. Saw a door, leading to a stairwell. He knew exactly what Buck was doing--escaping by going _up_ , instead of down. He was heading for the roof, and access to the next building.

It was what Clint would do.

But following Buck into a stairwell, where Buck could pick him off from above? Also stupid.

He turned and ran down the hallway, hauling ass to the _other_ stairwell, the one he’d passed two turns and one long fucking hallway ago. He barrelled through the door--and plunged into darkness. Shit. When Buck had killed the security system, he must’ve also killed the lights in the stairwells.

Clint hurried up the stairs as fast he could, hampered by the darkness. The only light was a faint glow far above him. When he reached the third flight, he saw his gamble had paid off. The glow was coming from an exit sign. 

_Roof access._

He sprinted up the next two flights, reached the door. His luck was holding--it was an emergency fire door. He fumbled, found and yanked the wire for the alarm just in case, then cautiously hit the bar, cracked the door open.

And froze.

It was a cloudless night, the moon almost full, and Clint had a clear view. Buck was only twenty yards away, had an arrow nocked and pointed at a security guard, and the security guard had his gun pointed at Buck.

Oh shit. _Shit._

Even though the security guard had his back to Clint, Clint _knew_ him.

It was Barney.

"So you finally found me. It certainly took you long enough." Barney's tone was snide, "You've also royally pissed off my boss. Mahone’s ordered me to kill you."

Buck and Barney were staring each other down; neither had noticed Clint. He jammed his boot against the door, wedging it open. Grabbed his bow. His brother’d never been a good shot--if Clint didn't take out Buck and soon, this was going to end badly.

"I don't care." Buck snarled back. "You stole from me."

 _Fuck._ Barney was in the way. He didn’t have a clear shot.

"That's rich coming from from the guy who makes his living stealing art." Barney was openly taunting Buck now. "Besides, you made it easy; you practically gift-wrapped that money for me."

Clint silently swore. If Barney would just take one step to the left. Just one fucking step. 

“But, then again I should've known.” Barney was still planted firmly in place, his gun trained on Buck.  
“Only an idiot would try to teach that dumb ass brother of mine anything."

Clint gritted his teeth at Barney's words, but he kept his arrow nocked. _Move, damnit. Just fucking move._

“Screw Clint. This is between you and me--” Buck stopped talking at the wail of a police siren, pulling into the driveway below.

Barney heard it too, looked away for just a split-second. 

Buck let the arrow go.

No!!!!! 

Barney was falling and Clint didn't think, he just fired, again and again and again until Buck dropped. 

He wasn't even aware he’d moved, that he’d dropped his bow. He was just suddenly _there_ , kneeling beside Barney. Oh shit, there was blood _everywhere_.

“Cl--Clint?” Barney writhed in pain, blood and froth spewing from his lips.

More sirens. It sounded like half the cops in the city were pouring into the parking lot below.

“I’m here, don’t talk, OK? Just hang on.” He didn’t know what to do, where to put his hands. There was so much blood. So much fucking blood. “Hang on, Barney, please, just hang on.” ||

~~+~~

(thirty) Clint eased the rental car up to the garage, then parked awkwardly, reaching across with his left hand to throw it in park. Because, of course he would have to break his _right_ wrist.

He was also a hundred dollars poorer, thanks to the clinic and the prescriptions. 

Fuckin’ co-pays.

At least Marge had felt sorry for him. She’d fed him lunch while he waited for his prescription to be filled, had her clerk pull the groceries he needed, and cut him a break on a case of beer. She’d also made the clerk load Clint’s car for him--which still meant it was up to him to get the groceries from the car to the cabin.

With one hand.

Clint fumbled the keys out of the ignition, got out of the car, and stared at the cabin’s staircase.

_Shit._

This? Was going to suck. 

It took more fumbling to get the trunk open. He tucked the bag of meds into his sling, grabbed the case of beer. He did OK until he got to the front door, then realized he had no way to get to his keys. 

Um, shit.

Clint leaned over to set the beer down on the porch, and the bag from the pharmacy slid out of his sling. It hit the boards of the porch and both pill bottles rolled out, and promptly rolled over the edge. 

Fuuuuuuck.

Clint smacked his forehead against the door. OK--beer, find pill bottles, haul groceries. He got the door open, grabbed the case of beer. He thrust the case into the fridge, then went back downstairs to look for the pill bottles. He found one right under the steps, but couldn’t find--

There. 

The bottle was next to the ladder--which was still laying in the grass. He walked over and picked up the ladder up, leaned it against the stone wall. And yeah, leaving it outside was a bad idea, because ladders were expensive and Clint knew he really should carry it to the garage, but that? Was _not_ happening.

Everything was a little hazy from the shot they’d given him at the clinic and there was milk _and_ Oreos in one of the bags of groceries. He was going to pour himself a big glass of milk, eat the entire bag of cookies, and enjoy the legal high while he still could.

He reached for the bottle--and froze at the sound of car wheels crunching on gravel.

Clint grabbed the second pill bottle, jammed it in his jeans pocket. He edged cautiously around the corner of the basement. He was half-hoping that it was somebody Marge had sent to check on him, but instead it was an SUV.

A very big, very black SUV.

Feds.

Oh, fuck. Why the fuck were the Feds here, at his cabin?

Clint tried to think of something, anything he had done. He came up with nothing. He also didn’t know what to do, because, well--Feds. He took a deep breath and decided to go for casual; mostly because the only weapon that was remotely close was in a duffel bag, in the trunk of his rental.

With his groceries.

At least he’d left the trunk up.

He strolled over, as nonchalantly as he could, keeping one eye on the SUV as it parked. He reached the car, and was considering whether he should go for the gun, the groceries, or for cover, when the doors to the SUV opened.

Oh. Oh, shit. 

Clint _knew_ the assholes getting out. They were the two military assholes from Ryker Island. It’d been more than seven years, but he would never, ever forget the faces of the guys who pulled him from of that hell hole. Besides, they didn’t seem to have changed clothes--they were both wearing the same outfits they’d been wearing back at the prison. The tall black guy with the patch over one eye was in a black leather trenchcoat, and the white guy was dressed in a gray suit and equally gray tie.

Were they coming to take him back?

For one sickening, heart stopping moment, that was all Clint could think about--and then, to his relief, suit-and-tie guy smiled. 

“You need a hand with those?”

It took Clint a couple of seconds to realize the guy was talking about his groceries. 

“Um.” It seemed like a good answer, considering the circumstances. 

Both men looked at him.

OK, maybe not. He changed his answer. “Sure.”

Then he watched in disbelief as the suit-and-tie guy picked up one of the two bags, and passed it to trenchcoat guy. “Here, boss.” 

Trenchcoat guy glared but took the bag, which seemed to amuse suite-and-tie guy. He looked back at Clint, grabbed the other bag. “We would've called, but apparently there’s a dead zone out here.”

“Yeah, makes it tough to order pizza.” Clint said it, then realized they wouldn't get the joke--there were no pizza places in Hensonville. “Uh, this way.”

He closed the trunk, led them up the stairs to the cabin.

Shit. Visitors.

Like, _visitors._

What the fuck did he do with visitors? And why the fuck were they here?

He walked down the hall, opened the door that led into the main living room. Trenchcoat guy paused, his one eye sweeping over the room. “I like what you’ve done to the place.” He cracked a slight smile, "Yes, we’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while, Barton. You’ve become one damn fine soldier.”

"I especially liked Beijing.” Suit-and-tie guy walked into the kitchen, set the bag of groceries on the counter. Came back and took the second bag from trenchcoat guy. “Even Director Fury here was impressed. Mind if I put a pot of coffee on?”

Clint was still trying to figure out if he'd heard right; 'You’ve become one damn fine soldier.' 

Wait--this director guy was impressed? Seriously?

Suit-and-tie guy was looking at him.

“Um, no. Help yourself.” Clint pointed to the coffee can, which sat on the top of the fridge. 

Ice cream.

He needed to put the ice cream away. He found the half-gallon he’d bought, put it in the freezer.

“So.” Director Fury pulled out one of the dining room chairs, sat down, “I have a question for you.”

Things suddenly added up. Unemployed ex-military marksman plus military federal assholes. 

“You want to offer me a job?” Clint also put the eggs and bread away. He grabbed the milk to put it in the fridge--stopped. Screw it. He opened the carton, and rummaged for the cookies.

“First, I want to hear your answer. Do you ever think about the man you killed?”

Clint hesitated.

Was that a trick question? It seemed like a trick question.

But yeah, he did think about the poor schmuck he’d shot for no reason. He’d killed other people, but only two deaths really bothered him, that guy’s--and Buck’s. Yeah, OK, Buck had killed his brother, but Buck had also let Clint live with him, taught him how to be a better marksman. Looking back, Clint wondered what would have happened if he’d made different choices, better choices.

Maybe Buck and Barney wouldn’t have ended up on the same rooftop, trying to kill each other.

Maybe he wouldn't have gotten himself arrested for murdering Buck, the one guy who’d actually tried to help him when he was down and out.

“Yeah.” Clint tucked the package of Oreos in his sling, grabbed his glass of milk, and sat down. “Yeah, I do think about that guy.”

Fury reached into his trenchcoat, pulled out some pictures, laid them on the table.

Clint didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t photos of mass graves.

“The man you shot was a high-ranking general for one of our allies. We’d started hearing rumors that this particular ally was sending death squads into villages, but everyone was too afraid to speak out.” He collected the pictures, slipped them back into the inner pocket of his coat. “Until you took out his most trusted general. That's when witnesses started coming forward--we tried and convicted six commanding officers, thanks to you. I’m telling you this because if you work for me, I will give you orders--orders you may not like, orders that are going to require you to get your hands dirty. But I can assure you, I always have my reasons.”

Clint managed, finally, to get the package of cookies open. He didn’t mind following orders, but he was _not_ going to be a yes man. “What happened to your ally?”

“Contracted food poisoning at a gala he hosted.” Suit-and-tie guy put a cup of coffee next to Fury’s elbow, then sat down with his own cup. His tone was mild. "The caterer'd had family members in one of those villages. Which goes to show the importance of background checks--one can never be too careful these days. Do you mind?”

Clint shook his head, and pushed the Oreos over.

His mind kept circling back to “sending death squads into the villages”. He remembered his time in that country; the way things were run. All the people with money lived in the cities, or the towns on the outskirts of the cities. The only people who lived way out in the country, in the villages, were the poor.

The guy he’d shot had lived in a fucking big mansion, with servants and six cars in the garage and expensive and crappy art hanging on the walls.

Shit. He was kind of pissed off that he’d made the general’s death so quick and painless.

“I’m not looking for a yes man, Barton. Washington DC is full of those--” Fury paused when suit-and-tie guy pushed the cookies his way. He glared, but took a cookie anyway. “Thank you, Coulson. As I was saying, I want you to know that if you work for me, you’re going to have questions, and sometimes I won’t be able to give you the answers you want.”

That seemed fair--at least a lot more fair than the way he'd been ordered around in the military. 

And he’d stuck that out for seven years.

Clint dunked another Oreo in his milk. “I, uh, won’t be able to work for at least six weeks. And I’m half deaf.”

Actually, we need you now." Coulson fished another cookie out of the bag. "You’ve worked with Amelia Greer before, correct?”

“Yeah.” Clint kept his answer short. Amelia was a mercenary, and one of the best archers he knew. The British had hired her as a consultant on a few of his NATO assignments. She’d been trained by a Muslim; she spoke fluent Arabic and knew the culture well.

He'd also slept with her.

Scratch that--she had slept with him. It'd definitely been her idea, and while he hadn't minded, it had been--weird. Well, OK, he usually found the whole sex thing weird. People--even the guys--always wanted to do stuff afterwards. Like, talk.

Clint preferred to sleep.

"She and Louis Joubert left the Brits, went to work for Harry Malone almost a year ago."

"Malone used to work for us, but went independent." Fury said it with the icy calm of somebody who was.really, really pissed. "Six months ago, he and his team went rogue. Their last attack was on U.S. soil--we've been ordered to shut them down."

"Which is why we need you. You knew Amelia, worked with her." Coulson said. "And you're also an archer."

Clint weighed things.

Fuck it.

Clint knew Fury and Coulson already had a team hand-picked. He also knew Trip had re-upped, but hadn't been allowed back in the RATs. He could at least try--he owed Trip that much. "You need Trip--Antoine Triplett. Louis and him were trained by the same guy. And Trip knows explosives."

"Deal." Fury didn't even blink. "You need to pack--or are you going to grab that ready bag in your trunk?"

~~+~~

|| (twenty-three) It was spring, but wet and cold. Clint stopped at the end of the yet another row, shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. He'd been here for nearly an hour and he was so damn cold and he couldn't find it.

He couldn't _fucking_ find it.

He found himself suddenly trying to blink back tears. Barney was right--he _was_ a fuck-up.

"Need help?"

He jumped at the question. Wiped a sleeve across his cheek, turned.

"My name's Joe." An old man was standing right behind him, leaning on a shovel. "Those idiots on the county board went and changed the numbering system fifteen years ago--the new system confuses everyone. What's the number?"

Clint pulled his other hand out of his pocket, and looked down at the crumpled print-out. "Um--"

"This what they gave you at the courthouse?" Joe gently took the paper out of Clint's hands, smoothed it out. "They tell you the zero is actually an 'O'? Yeah, didn't think so."

"Follow me." Joe rested the shovel on his shoulder, started walking. Clint shoved both hands back in his pockets, fell in next to him.

Joe looked over, and his eyes were kind. "Ain't no shame in crying, you know. The way I see it, the dead, they want us to remember them. Here we go."

Clint stared down at the grave the old man had pointing to.

Barney's grave.

Nothing but wet grass and a tiny stone marker, with numbers and letters on it.

Shit.

It'd been over two years, but the fact Barney was _dead_ hit him all over again. He blinked, but a tear still escaped.

"You do what you need to do, son." Joe patted Clint on the shoulder, handed back the print-out. "See that address at the bottom? If you send the county two hundred dollars; they'll put a name on the stone." He shifted his shovel to the other shoulder, "Oh, and if you want to leave something, put it under the marker. This new county board's got a whole lot of dumb rules about keeping the graves clean."

It dawned on Clint he should've brought something.

Except he had nothing to bring, and flowers were stupid. "Um, thanks."

"You're welcome, son. Just glad I could help." Joe squeezed his shoulder, then walked off.

Clint continued to stare at the marker, searching for--what? Words? 

It was his fault Barney was dead. But--Barney should never have stolen from Buck, should never have tried to go toe to toe with Buck on that rooftop.

Barney had been high, too.

Clint knew, because he'd finally gotten his hands on the autopsy report.

Cocaine and alcohol--and Barney wasn't a great shot, even when he was sober.

The first rain drop hit.

Fuck.

He turned up the collar of his coat, shivering as the rain really began to pour. He should do-- _something._ It'd taken him three days to get here; it would be months before the army would give him time off again. 

Not that it really mattered. His brother was _gone._

_Why? Just fuckin' tell me why, damnit!_

The words tumbled out of nowhere into his brain, but his mouth refused to move.

He balled up his hands into fists, not sure if the water running down his face was rain, or tears. 

He wasn't sure if he fuckin' cared.||

~~+~~

Clint stared out the window of the conference room. He was three stories up, but he could still see the rain pooling on the road below. Further out was the tarmac; one of those dark shapes was the quinjet that'd flown him here. The jet was a definite step up from the-piece-of-shit troop carriers that the army used.

And they had Hoyt bows. He'd only gotten a quick glance at the weapons locker on the quinjet, but holy shit--Hoyt bows.

OK, Clint was a little vague on who 'they' were. There'd been a United States seal on the papers he'd signed, but he had no idea which agency had hired him. He probably should've asked, but he'd been too busy trying to wrap his head around the size of his new paycheck. There was even an extra bonus for 'signing on voluntarily'.

He probably should've asked about that, too.

Still--they had fucking _Hoyt_ bows.

Also? Hui Muslims.

He'd figured it out on the plane ride over. He probably should've told Fury or Coulson, but he was the new guy, who fought with pointy wooden sticks. Better to wait, mention it at the briefing.

"Clint!"

He turned.

Trip smiled, pointing at Clint's arm. "Please tell me you broke it doing something fun."

"I, uh," He went for the easy answer. "I fell off a roof."

"You retire, disappear for two months--no phone calls, no emails," Trip draped an arm across Clint's shoulder, punched him lightly in his good shoulder. "And your excuse is, you fell off a roof?"

Clint gave a half-shrug, fighting back a smile. "I went home."

"Iowa?" Trip's smile turned into a grin as three other people walked into the conference room. "Let me get this straight.You retired--and you went back to Iowa?"

Clint found himself laughing at that. Trip had always given him shit for being born in Iowa--and he'd kind of missed it.

"Ahem." The older guy spoke. "I'm Agent Chen. This is Agent Garrett--"

The other man thrust his hand out for Trip to shake. "John Garrett. I'll be be your supervising agent. "

"And I've been assigned as your S.O.." That was the woman--slender, with the coiled energy of a fighter. "So you're with me, Hawkeye." 

Clint started. He hadn't heard that name since his days back in the circus, how had she known--

Oh.

He realized it was a joke, because--Iowa.

"My name's Agent May." She kept on talking, "The briefing's been canceled. We have a confirmed sighting of two of the suspects in Belgrade. I hope you guys like Serbia."

"Which two?"

May raised one eyebrow at his question, "Suarez and Sallinger. Now let's move."

"OK, but um, we should also check Ningxia."

The autonomous region?" Agent Chen used China's stupid name for the province. "Why?"

"Because her record says she was trained by a Muslim, but it was a Hui Muslim." This? Was a shitty thing to do, repeat something that a lover had whispered to him in the dark. Clint didn't see he had much of a choice. “Ningxia is where she was trained."

Agent Chen’s expression turned serious. "We have sources who have told us Harry Malone is injured. Maybe she took him to a bolthole--"

Good." May interrupted,"You take Serbia; me and Hawkeye will.take China."

Shit. 'Hawkeye' was obviously going to be a thing with her..

Agent Chen looked at May for a moment, and it was clear he was not happy with her calling the shots. He finally spoke, "Fine--but I want a full status report at 0900 Greenwich mean time, tomorrow."

"Sure." Agent May started to walk out the door, and Clint hurried to fall in beside her.

"And don't blow anything up, do you hear me?"

"Perfectly." May strode out the door, and down the hall. She turned the corner, glanced over at Clint. “Thanks. I prefer _not_ to visit Serbia, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Clint started to say ‘you’re welcome’, but May was already charging through the front doors, heading for the tarmac. He followed at her heels, more than a little impressed at easily and efficiently she bullied her way into taking the closest Quinjet. 

A few minutes later, Clint found himself trying to awkwardly snap the buckle for the co-pilot’s chair, one-handed. He straightened--and then mentally kicked himself. _Serbia._

That slight hitch in May’s voice when she said it. 

Shit.

He’d assumed the agent was in her thirties, but--

He glanced over at May, who was running through the pre-flight check.

Yeah, he’d been wrong. More like, early forties. And as a RAT, he’d ran into soldiers that’d put boots on the ground in Serbia back in the 90s.

May was looking at him now. “What?”

“You served in Serbia in the 90s.” Somehow, it didn’t come out a question like he’d intended.

“Remind me to sign you for flying lessons.” She sidestepped the question, then spoke into her mike, requesting to be cleared for take off. 

Ten minutes later, the Quinjet was airborne in what was definitely the smoothest take off he’d ever experienced. 

Clint waited for May to put the jet on auto-cruise.

And yeah, OK, he wasn’t good at shutting up, even when he probably should. But Serbia? Was pretty fucked up, and not talking about it? Even more fucked up.

Also? He was still a little high from the shot the clinic had given him four hours ago. So, not really his fault.

“You know--”

May’s eyes narrowed. 

“Look, I, uh, just wanted to say--a really smart guy once told me that it was OK--the dead want to be remembered.”

May frowned, and for a second, he thought he’d gone too far. Then her expression changed, and she gave a small nod.

“Here.” Clint reached into his sling, grabbed the half-empty bag of Oreos, held it out. “Have a cookie.”

There was another second of silence, then May’s mouth quirked up and she took an Oreo. “You’re going to get that report to Chen first thing tomorrow, right?”

“Sure.” Clint had no idea what form he even needed to fill out, but he suspected May wasn’t all that concerned about S.O.P. He could improvise. "And You’re going to make sure we avoid explosives, right?”

May grabbed two more Oreos, and a slight smile flitted across her lips. “Chen ordered me not to blow things up; I cannot control what a potential hostile might do.”

Clint grinned back. 

That settled, they both leaned back and stretched out, munched cookies and watched the clouds zip by.

~~Finis~~


End file.
